Before the First Stamp
Before Taormina, before the first postcard, there was only a feeling: something out there was waiting.
Floki had never thought of himself as a traveller.
He liked familiar streets. He liked knowing which gates creaked, which gardens had cats and which corners usually smelled interesting. Routine was useful.
Until one day, it began to feel too small.
Nothing dramatic happened. No trumpet sounded. No map fell from the sky. Floki simply started walking a little farther — then farther again.
He discovered that every place had its own rhythm. Some streets smelled of rain and stone. Others of warm bread, salt air or trees he had never seen before. Floki liked that, more than he expected.
And somewhere along the way, the strange red things began appearing again: a flash of red paper, a mark on an old photograph, a corner disappearing beneath a suitcase. Always brief. Always gone before anyone else seemed to notice.
Floki began to wonder if he was imagining it.
Then came Taormina — the sea, the warm Sicilian light and the first real postcard. Red. Unmistakable. Waiting for him.
That was the moment everything changed.
Floki had thought he was simply going somewhere new. Instead, he had stepped into a story — and he had the feeling it had been waiting for him for a very long time.
The first stamp was only the beginning.